


thomas

by deadlybride



Series: A Perfect Circle [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s05e05 Fallen Idols, Established Relationship, Getting Back Together, M/M, Mild Painplay, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 12:58:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9550187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: September 28, 2009. Dean's tired of missing Sam.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A Perfect Circle - _Thomas_ , track eight of _Mer de Noms_

_show me the way to forgive you_  
_allow me to let it go_  
_allow me to be forgiven_  
_show me the way to let go_

  
When they leave Canton, the morning after killing Leshii, Dean actually does sleep, for almost two hundred miles. Sam stops for gas just outside Dayton and they switch, and then Dean turns the radio on low and cruises easy, through a quick drive-thru lunch and a slowly dimming afternoon. Sam naps for a while, somewhere in there, but mostly he just looks out the window, slouched and drumming his fingers occasionally on his leg when one of the songs he pretends not to like comes on the radio. Dean finds himself smiling, second or third time he catches it, and it’s such a surprise that he covers his mouth with his free hand, scrubs his fingers rough over his lips. It’s been a while. Sam doesn’t notice, anyway. They haven’t done much talking, really, but—it’s better. Not all the way. Not perfect, not like it used to be—but, still. It’s better.

There's a motel in Clarksville just over the border of Tennessee, seventy-nine dollars a night. Clean, and the beds are soft. Dean drops his bag on the queen nearer the door and stands there for a few seconds, kind of tired. Sam’s digging for something in his duffel on the other bed, facing away from Dean, and so Dean doesn’t feel any compunction at all about just standing there, and watching him.

Almost six hundred miles and hours and hours of quiet. Time enough to do some thinking. More than. Dean licks his lips, bites them, and then clears his throat. “Gonna take a shower,” he says, and Sam nods, but doesn't say anything.

The light in the bathroom’s dim, but the water pressure’s good. Dean scrubs himself clean under the steady spray, eyes closed, then just stands there, his head tipped back against the rush of water, letting it flow down his back where it’s sore from where that crappy excuse for a goddess had thrown him around. Feels like—years, really, since the last time he didn’t have some part of him that hurt, for one reason or another. Still, could be worse. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to go to Detroit again without thinking of it: Sam, white-suited and smiling and _so reasonable, so calm, Dean’s other self a broken corpse at his feet_ —

He slits his eyes open and shakes his head, sharply, then shuts off the water. Could be a lot worse.

When he comes out of the bathroom, a little damp but with his t-shirt and boxers on, it’s full night. Sam’s turned on the lamp between the beds, but it’s dim in here, too—just a faint yellow glow lighting up the boring white walls, the ugly brown bedspreads. Just enough that Dean can stand there leaning in the bathroom doorway and see Sam, hunched over his laptop at the little table by the window, whatever he’s reading lighting up his face with cool blue. He glances up, when Dean doesn’t move, and after a second a tiny, tiny smile flickers at the corner of his mouth, cuts a dimple into one cheek, and then he’s looking down at the laptop screen again, his hair swinging out from behind his ear.

Dean takes in a slow breath, whatever had been twisting into his gut settling down, again. That was the thing that came home with him, from that other when, from that weird and terrible dream of a future. He doesn’t know how Zachariah screwed up whatever lesson he was trying to teach that badly. He pushes off the bathroom door and Sam glances at him again, says, “Hey, so I think I’ve got something,” and so Dean dutifully goes and leans over Sam’s shoulder, reads about the fourth mysterious disappearance in Nashville in as many months, but he’s not paying attention. He breathes in and—that’s his brother, the one he missed so much over these empty hurting weeks, the month without him, the months before that when he couldn't bear to get close, for fear that Sam would turn away from him, from fear of smelling sulfur. But that’s Sam’s stupid shampoo, and the faint smell of his sweat, his warmth, and when Dean looks down there’s Sammy’s dorky furrowed-brow expression as he puts together clues, wide-open and clear and not hiding a thing, not anymore—not that still, empty-faced _not-Sam-at-all—_ and so Dean doesn’t think anymore, he just leans in and down and, right in the middle of “Could be a vamp, maybe,” he kisses Sam, catches his mouth hopeful and off-center.

He hangs there for a second, aching, eyes closed. Sam breathes in slow against his mouth and then turns his head a little and— _thank god_ —kisses back, careful. Dean makes some soft sound, braced awkwardly with one hand on the table and one on the back of Sam’s chair. Sam puts a hand on his jaw, thumb braced low against his throat, pushes him back for just a second and when Dean’s eyes shudder open Sam’s looking at him, and—that’s not the dissecting-a-case expression, anymore, and it’s not still and confident and awful. It’s _Sam_ , eyes searching. He says, “Dean,” soft between them, disbelieving maybe, and Dean tries to smile—feels like he doesn’t make it—but Sam’s eyes drop to his mouth anyway and then he’s shoving his chair back, standing right up into Dean’s space and getting his hands on Dean’s face and kissing him hard, for real, _meaning_ it, and that means Dean can just grab him back, can fist his hands tight into his stupid flowery shirt, can hold on for dear life.

It’s been so long. Their hands stumble together, trying to open up Sam’s buttons, and Dean catches an elbow to the chest as he’s yanking off his t-shirt. If it had been a year ago, two, they might’ve laughed, but it’s desperate instead, a desperate clumsy fumble, Sam hardly moving away from his mouth and Dean not wanting to let him, shoving at Sam’s jeans and his own boxers until they're pressed skin-to-skin together, in the half-dim of the ugly little room. Sam's hands find Dean’s ass, pulling the cheeks apart rough enough that it hauls Dean up onto his toes, and in return Dean slips his fingers down into the open fly of Sam’s jeans and finds him half-hard, maybe more, the big familiar shape curving up warm into his hand, and he moans out loud into Sam’s mouth, surprises himself. He—he wants—and then he’s being moved, flipped around and shoved toward the nearer bed—lands on his belly, dick smearing against the slick bedspread, and then Sam's on top of him, jeans shoved off so it's just skin, all of that endless heat crushed against him, Sam's mouth on the back of his neck and his hands tight around Dean's wrists, holding him flat against the bed, caging him, and Dean shudders, groans, tucks his face in against the bedspread and curls his fingers into the polyester and spreads his legs, asking, hoping—

Sound of a zipper, thump of his duffel shoved off the bed and then—lube, two long fingers shoved in deep—and oh, it's been a while, and Dean's breath goes high and shallow, his back arching under Sam's weight—Sam's teeth scraping over his shoulder, the shove of his fingers insisting, knuckles twisting slick inside Dean and it's—not enough, it stings and it's too fast and it's still not enough. There's a pulsing ache throbbing in his balls, inside him where Sam's fingers are spreading him open, in his dick leaking wet against the bed, and then—then a slippery hand shoving at the inside of his thigh and he hitches it up as far as he can and arches his back and then—the hot thick nudging at his crack, slipping, and he holds his breath and squeezes his eyes closed and then—the push, _oh_ , the sting of it, months and months since he's had it and he's good at this, he knows what to do, but he's clenched tight as a teenager, hips jerking, and then—big hand shoving in against the small of his back, holding him still, and all he can do is let out a high sharp moan, jolted out of him with each muscled push, in and in and in, forcing him open and slippery and loose until narrow hips are tight against his ass, that familiar weight pushing down, stealing his breath, and then—then a shuddery, low groan against the back of his neck, silk-soft hair against his ear, and then long fingers turning his chin, pulling him away from the bed and then a mouth on his, licking him open, gentle compared to the ache in his ass, and he opens his eyes and blinks away the wet-fractured blur and then—Sam. Close, and there. He breathes, mouth open, and Sam watches him, flexes against him, gets an elbow onto the bed and twists his hips, and Dean's whole body flinches with it, hurt and open and desperate. He doesn't know what expression's on his face but Sam groans, tucks his head down against Dean's shoulder and wraps his arm tight around Dean's chest—says, "You—" in a cracked voice against Dean's skin—shifts his weight so his knees are dug into the mattress either side of Dean's thighs, and then _oh_ , oh _fuck_ , he's got the leverage to fuck in where Dean's ready, now, ready for him at last, and so he does, and Dean wraps shaky fingers around Sam's flexing forearm and lets go, falls into it, because fuck the angels, fuck the demons, fuck Ruby and Alastair and Lucifer and Michael and God, too, fuck anyone that comes between them, because he doesn't doubt it, anymore. This is it, this is them. This is everything he needs.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/156704826294/thomas)


End file.
